


Finding Atlantis

by magicaldrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco has a mini redemption arc, Drarry, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Muggle Culture, and he wears aesthetic gay clothes, draco has blue hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 15:25:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14047206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicaldrarry/pseuds/magicaldrarry
Summary: "I want a fic where draco just decides that he's done.he gives up on trying to be who he's supposed to be and does exactly what he wants, not worrying about the consequences. he figures the war will kill him anyway, so why not go out with a bang? he says "fuck you" to snape when he tries to talk sense into him, dyes his hair bright blue, he talks to hermione about a book he discovers they both love, he mouths off to his racist friends, he apologizes to hagrid and helps him clean up some dung. during dinner he strides right up to the gryffindor table, grabs harry by the front of his robes, and pulls him into a searing kiss." — parseltonquinq (tumblr)





	Finding Atlantis

**Author's Note:**

> alright! i saw this textpost on instagram (quoted in the summary) and i absolutely had to write it. i changed a few aspects, like how i made it after the war (hence the absence of severus snake), but i loved the post too much to get rid of more! i had a ton of fun writing it, but i also know the pacing of the story is super weird and inconsistent... i may rewrite it later and make it longer and such.  
> anyways, i hope you like it!  
> —azriel (@magicaldrarry)
> 
> note: i do not own harry potter and am not making any money off writing this. all remaining mistakes are mine (if you see one, leave a comment!).

His father was dead. Gone forever, and Draco would never have to see him again. 

It felt as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders; like he could do anything he wanted. What was stopping him? Certainly not his father, because he was dead.

The first thing he did was go into Muggle London and bought a package of hair day. Made by Muggles, of course, as a final “fuck you” to Lucius Malfoy.

The manor was cold when he got back, light streaming through the enormous windows onto the floor. No one else was there; his mother had moved to France after the war. Draco apparated to his room and walked into the bathroom, turning on the light with his wand. The six-month ban on his magic (courtesy of the Ministry, for his part in the war) had just ended, and he appreciated the flow of magic through his fingertips a little more than before. 

Draco stared at himself in the mirror. Staying out of the public (both wizarding and Muggle) for the majority of the past half a year had led Draco to not giving a flying fuck about what he looked like. He was thin and pale, his hair white and wavy. He had gotten used to the lack of straightening charms over the past half year and his hair had gone back to its natural state. He looked a bit sickly, Draco knew. But now he had time. Time to renew himself, to heal, to live.

Reaching for the small box of dye, he quickly read the directions and got to work. He wouldn’t have to bleach his hair since it was already so light. Draco would also have extra dye left over since he had half the amount of hair now compared to a few weeks ago before impulsively shaving the sides of his head and cutting the hair on top to about 15 centimetres long. He put a glove-like charm on his hands so they wouldn’t get stained, starting his transformation.

It took him 45 minutes to get all the dye in, and when his arms seemed like they were going to fall off from holding them up for so long he finally got to rest for another 45 until he was to wash the dye out. Kneeling in his bathroom and leaning over the side of the tub, Draco stuck his head under the faucet, the cold water sending shivers down his spine. He threaded his hands through his hair, watching the once crystal clear water turning a peaceful azure blue. 

Once he had lightly washed his hair, dried it, and put special charms on it to preserve the colour, he stared at the mirror once more. Draco felt more alive now, like the splash of blue had not only brightened how he looked but also his life. Deciding to be productive, he owl-ordered all the necessities for his eighth year at Hogwarts. All previous seventh years had been invited back to the castle, and although Draco was a bit worried about going back he quickly realised that spending more time alone in the Manor was awfully boring compared to actually doing something. Besides, going back would be in his best interests for getting a good enough job later. 

The day before he’s set to leave for Hogwarts, Draco’s stomach was filled with butterflies. Really, he’s ready–he’d practically ditched his whole closet, donating most of his silk pyjamas and what seemed like 100-piece robe sets (they had actually only been maybe 12 pieces), only keeping the things he loved–and bought loads of new clothes since the eighth years didn’t have to wear the Hogwarts uniforms. Shirts with small rainbows in place of a pocket, colourful socks; all sorts of Muggle jeans, both skinny and loose fitting that he could roll up. New shoes, what Muggles called “Vans,” and “Converse,” and baggy sweaters and sweatshirts. He’d also impulsively pierced the left side of his nose, choosing a small, thin silver ring. Completing his aesthetic, of course.

Maybe the butterflies are from nervousness, maybe from excitement. It’s okay, though, because Draco has learned–he’s learned that it’s his life and he’s the one who needs to take control. He’s learned that yes, it’s inevitable that people are going to stare and whisper and go out of their way to throw snide remarks at him and try their best not to touch him and his marked skin–but Draco has also learned that the only way for him to get passed that is to not care. And Draco is ready; he doesn’t give a damn anymore. He needs this change.

*****

Back at Hogwarts, the eighth years were assigned new dorms in the dungeons, on the opposite side of the castle as the Slytherin dormitories. There were two people in a dorm, and the rules were looser with sleeping arrangements. If anyone wanted to switch rooms, all people involved had to agree and that was that. Draco was quite relieved when he was assigned a room with Blaise Zabini, who was fine enough. 

During the second week of school while sitting in the Great Hall, Draco was eating dinner when he heard a familiar voice yelling not too far away from him. Theodore Nott, yelling at Granger about the war. Potter and Weasley weren’t around, so Nott wasn’t getting punched yet. He was saying something about being a mudblood, of course, and how she and her “kind” had made the war worse. 

“Nott!” he yelled, standing up. Theo’s angry face snapped towards him as Draco walked over. “Shut the bloody hell up, would you? We’d probably all be dead if it wasn’t for her, so keep your racist remarks out of here.” Granger’s eyebrows were raised, surprised Draco had been the one to speak up. Draco looked at her and gave her a small smile before Theo spoke again.

“You’re one to talk, Malfoy, with your poofy arse. What happened to pureblood pride?” Nott spat.

“I grew up, you daft prick. I also don’t fancy getting hexed for being racist, which is what will happen to you if you don’t fuck off,” said Draco, sneering. The rainbows and blue hair could be misleading; he hadn’t gone soft. Snarling, Theo stalked out of the Great Hall. 

Everyone slowly went back to eating as Draco realised how quiet the Great Hall had become. Turning back to go to his seat, Granger touched his elbow. “Draco–thank you,” she said quietly.

Draco gave her a small smile. “Of course. It was the right thing to do.” He looked down and a book caught his eye. “‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,’” he read, grinning up at her. “One of my favourite books. I wouldn’t have taken you as someone who reads about animals, Granger.”

She let out a light laugh. “I’ll have you know I love animals, they fascinate me,” she said, putting her nose in the air. She paused for a second. “Would you… would you like to eat with me? I’d like to talk with someone who actually reads for once.”

“Sure, Granger,” he said as they sat. It was the first real conversation Draco had had since he arrived, other than Blaise.

“Draco, you can call me Hermione, you know. It’s only right since we’re eating dinner together,” the girl said.

“Of course, Granger. Now, books… Tell me about your favourite.”

*****

It’s in potions when Draco first talks to Potter. The green-eyed boy had simply asked him to pass a small container of mandrake root, but it felt like more. There was no judgement or cruelty behind his words, just, “Can you pass the mandrake root, Malfoy?” Draco had wordlessly handed to him, and the moment was over.

The second time is in the library when he and Granger (“I’ve told you, Draco, there’s no need to call me Granger anymore!” followed by, “Okay, Granger.”) are supposed to be studying, but instead, are having a lighthearted argument the Salem witch trials. Potter had come down to their table and sat across from Granger. 

“Hi, Harry. Quick question, do you think the people accused of practising witchcraft during the Salem witch trials in 1693 were actually wizards?” she asks. “I say they weren’t, but Draco thinks they were.”

“Erm, I dunno. Maybe, I guess. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? They must have had some evidence pointing to magic to accuse them in the first place,” Potter said, grinning.

“See, he has a point!” Draco exclaims. “What type of evidence pointing to magic wouldn’t be related to magic? Thank you, Potter. Hermione obviously did not think this through,” he says, trying to glare at Granger but failing miserably, and laughing instead.

“Hah, I caught you! You called me Hermione!” she says triumphantly, ignoring Draco’s last remark.

Draco groaned, tilting his head back. “Oh, fuck off,” he says jokingly.

“Nope! Now, Harry, what brings you to our humble table?” 

Potter pulled a sheet of parchment from his bag and slid it across the table. “I need help,” he said flatly.

“Potions? You’d be better off asking Draco for help with that.”

Potter looked at Draco pleadingly. “I’m practically dying in that class. Nothing makes sense! How am I supposed to know how much honeywater affects a potion?”

“It’s not hard, Potter. Do you know how to cook?” Draco asked, quickly reading what the other boy had written so far. When Harry nodded, he continued. “If you’re baking cookies, can you expect them to turn out well if you put in twice as much salt than you’re supposed to? No, they would be too salty and wouldn’t taste good. It’s like that, too much honeywater in a blood replenishing potion would mean the proportions are off and the potion could damage the drinker.”

Potter nodded again. “Okay, but what about this one?” he pointed to another part of the textbook.

“The Wiggenweld potion; it reverses the effects of the Draught of Living Death.”

“Draco, Harry–I’m going to my room, be nice to each other. I don’t want to have either of you end up in the infirmary tonight,” Hermione said as she packed up her books and papers. “I’ll see you in the common room.”

“G’night, ‘Mione,” Potter said, only half paying attention.

“Goodnight, Granger,” Draco smirked. The brown-eyed girl laughed and rolled her eyes before walking out. 

Draco helped Potter with his potions homework for another hour that night, and not once did it ever occur to either of them to make a rude retort or make fun of the other. “Things are changing,” Draco thought.

*****

On Saturday, Draco went down to Hagrid’s hut to apologise and offer his help. Hagrid, delighted for the extra hands, put Draco to work. He spent the first hour clearing a field of dung (with magic, of course–he was wearing some of his favourite clothes!), then helped harvest flowers for the Potions professor, and lastly, Draco got to take care of the thestrals and hippogriffs (which he did not insult this time). He finished his work feeling happy and satisfied, then sat with Hagrid for another few hours talking about magical creatures and drinking tea with too much sugar.

Everything was getting better. People were talking to him, laughing with him, asking him to borrow quills, asking him where he got his clothes. But… something was missing.

Draco felt it at times when he should be relaxed, like right before going to bed, studying quietly with Hermione, or after visiting Hagrid every Saturday afternoon. It made him feel unsatisfied, something unfinished. But what he noticed most about it was that it hit him hardest when he spent time with Potter. Whether it was helping with potions or the raven-haired boy teaching him how to cast a Patronus, there was always an absence in their time together.

He figured it out while laying in bed one day during dinner. Draco had snagged food from the kitchens earlier, so he wasn’t hungry. Letting his brain wander, it went to Potter, of course. The green-eyed boy had been occupying his thoughts as of late, and Draco had certainly noticed how Potter had been finding every possible reason to give him soft touches on his wrist, or elbow, or the small of his back–or how easily Potter blushed when Draco playfully pushed him. Potter  _ liked _ him, and he was a blind fool for not realising it earlier. Draco shot up in his bed when the thought of Potter liking him made Draco involuntarily smile and feel happy.  _ “Oh, god…”  _ Draco thought.  _ “I like Harry fucking Potter.” _

*****

Sitting with this newly found fact about himself was not faring well for Draco. He was nervous, and tried his best to avoid Potter so he wouldn’t find out about Draco’s little… crush. That didn’t go well either–it didn’t even go. Potter was impossible to get or stay away from. He always had potions questions (which Draco was much too happy to answer) or was dragging Draco out to the pitch to play a seeker’s game of Quidditch. And Draco, although he wanted to be annoyed, enjoyed every moment of it.

He finally snapped a Tuesday morning. Everything had slowly built up like water behind a dam, and it was finally bursting free. Draco got up, showered and dressed, then strode down to the Great Hall. As he walked in, Potter was laughing with Hermione before he saw Draco.

“Draco! I was going to come find you, I–”

Draco kissed him, softly taking the younger boy’s face between his palms and leaning down the slightest bit to lower his lips on Potter’s.

Potter let out a small squeak before melting into the kiss, one hand coming up to the side of Draco’s ribs. When they pulled apart, he said, “I swear to Merlin, Draco, I’ve wanted to do that for weeks.”

“Good, because I don’t fancy being punched,” Draco said with a smirk. Harry laughed, and Draco kissed him again.

Harry tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and let out a shy smile. “I’m starving, though. Breakfast?” he asked, slipping his hand into Draco’s and intertwining their fingers.

Draco looked down at the happiness radiating across the other boy’s face, the empty space he had felt before filled. It was as if he had been searching for something hidden, and he had finally found it. Draco smiled. “Sure, Harry. Breakfast sounds great.”

_ fin _

**Author's Note:**

> i'll love you forever if you give kudos and comments!  
> find me on tumblr @magicaldrarry


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